


A Kiss is Just a Kiss

by madsthenerdygirl



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-29 17:33:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6385741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madsthenerdygirl/pseuds/madsthenerdygirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The mistletoe might be fake. Their kiss is not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Kiss is Just a Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> This story was originally posted on fanfiction.net in 2015 and is now being crossposted here along with the rest of my work.

Jack stared up at the 'mistletoe' that Jane held over their heads. Beside him Miss Fisher had gone very still. A smile was playing about the corners of her lips but it wasn't quite meeting her eyes. It didn't take a detective to guess why.

They'd been so close a few weeks ago. Just a couple of extra seconds and he would have kissed her. He knew it, and more importantly she knew it. In fact if Prudence hadn't interrupted he wasn't entirely certain he wouldn't have ended up doing a lot more than kiss her.

Aunt Prudence certainly wasn't interrupting now.

In fact the entire room seemed to be holding its breath, everyone watching them with the singular attentiveness of hawks. Jack watched her face, searching for something, anything, to tell him if it was all right to go through with this. When he'd imagined what his first kiss with Phryne Fisher would be like, he certainly hadn't imagined them in a room full of people. Would she be all right with it? Or would she resent their moment stolen away from them?

Phryne tipped her head up to his ever so slightly. Her eyelids drooped and her lips parted the barest inch in the center. Was she—?

Oh, forget it. Jack Robinson was not going to look this gift horse in the mouth.

He brought his hand—the one that wasn't holding his drink—up to her face. He cradled it, his palm at her jaw and his fingers brushing her cheekbone. She leaned into it, her eyelids slowly sliding closed as he inclined his head toward hers. He kept his eyes open as long as he could. He wanted to savor this. But the second their lips brushed together his eyes fell shut of their own accord and he had to restrain himself from devouring her that very moment.

Her lips were a little wet from the alcohol and their mouths stuck together a bit as they pulled apart. He could smell the alluring dab of perfume she'd placed at the pulse point on her neck and the sweet citrus of her shampoo in her hair. He could slightly taste her just from their lips meeting, but it as a fleeting one, skimming the surface of a lake he wanted to dive right into. He wanted to get his hands on her. He wanted to feel her waist, her hips, her hair, the small of her back underneath his fingers. He wanted to have her body against his, her soft, lean frame contrasting his broad, calloused one. He wanted her arms around his torso, his shoulders, her hands at his neck, his back, her fingers tangling in his hair. He wanted to slip his tongue in between those slightly parted lips and gently work her open, explore her uncharted mouth until he discovered every sound she was capable of making.

He wanted to slide his hands lower and cup her ass so that when he made her knees go weak (which he was determined to do) she could lean back into his hands and he could hoist her up. She'd put her legs around his waist—possibly making a crack about the state of him in his pants while he was at it—and possibly, because she was a tease who'd kept him on a thin string for months now, roll her hips against him once or twice.

He wanted to lower her onto the piano and dive into her wildly, making her leave half-crescent marks in the wood from her nails as she dug them in and screamed his name. But he knew he'd hate himself afterwards if he did that for their first time. He would have to restrain himself and carry her up the stairs (tripping at least once because that was the kind of luck he had) to her bedroom. He knew he would give in to his besotted state and lay her down on the bed to stare at for a good couple of minutes. She'd be beautiful in the soft light of the lantern. Even more so by the pearlescent glow of the moon. She looked like she belonged to the moon sometimes. And by that he didn't mean the moon of science but the moon of myth and legend. She had to be one of those goddesses, those moon maidens that bewitched ancient men so. There was a reason that the moon was almost always female. It was soft and enchanting and mysterious. It bewitched everyone who saw it, even the most hardened and sensible of men. How did he ever think he could escape her spell? How had he ever thought himself immune? She was more than just charm, more than simple grace. She was elegance. She was magic. She was everything.

At least, to him.

He wanted to kiss her, just like this, but all over her body. He wanted to go slowly and carefully, mapping out the spots that made her moan and writhe and create a path from one to another, a constellation on her body. He knew he was far from the first but he also knew that she knew how his heart beat to the rhythm of her name. If she consented to take him into her bed, then he would know she had accepted that—and that he might not be the first but he would be the only and, hopefully, the last.

Oh how he wanted to be the last.

He wanted to know what she tasted like at different times. Did she taste differently after eating chocolate than after indulging in a nightcap? What were her coffee kisses like compared to when her lips were sticky with juice from a ripe fruit? Did she kiss differently in the morning than at night? Would they become sloppy when she was drunk or would they become small pecks to scatter like raindrops over his mouth?

How would she kiss him in private compared to now, in front of their friends and her ragtag family?

The friends. Her family.

They were still under Jane's mistletoe.

He opened his eyes slowly, hoping his reluctance didn't show. If she were truly his—only his—and this were his house he'd order every last one of them out this very moment so he could go back to kissing her until dawn. But then, if she were truly his and this were his house, he would have her all the time and could probably afford to be generous and wait until the party was over. It would be hard, though. He liked to think of himself as a generous man but he was selfish where Phryne Fisher was concerned.

She was opening her eyes as well, and their gazes locked. Phryne's eyes were heavy and light all at once, like there was a new weight in them but it was a joyful one. He wanted to say something, a confession on his lips even though he had no idea what he would say, but she spoke first. Her voice was low and smoky and raw.

"Jack…"

"Now  _that's_  a kiss!" Burt said, raising his glass with a large grin.

Jack wondered if it would be bad form to punch him.

Everyone laughed and returned to their conversation. Jane jumped down and ran to throw out her mistletoe, having successfully gotten everyone to kiss. Jack held in his sigh by taking another sip of his drink. Perhaps he'd call it a night.

A smooth, elegant hand slipped into his, interlocking their fingers and squeezing gently. Her mouth was right at his ear, her lips brushing the shell of it, breathing temptation into his veins.

"You know, I do believe there's some mistletoe right over my bed…"

Jack turned to look at her. "Is that so, Miss Fisher?"

Without a word, she set her glass down and began to lead him from the room.

It seemed he wasn't the only one who'd been wanting things.


End file.
